Page 17 of Wrecked
She leans back, a look of surprise and then amusement on her face as she raises an eyebrow. “Well, that's quite the assumption considering you don't know me.”
That's true. I don't. But I know that she's all smiles and happiness, so she probably hasn't experienced many hardships in her life and hasn't had many stresses or problems. That annoys me for some reason.
“I could have tattoos all over my body,” she continues. “I could be a tortured soul with a secret addiction or live my life looking for the next thrill to cover up the fact that my life is actually crap, and I feel like a loser.”
I feel my muscles tensing up and all of those feelings from before come rushing back to the forefront. The logical part of meknowsshe wasn't talking about me, but the part that's feeling frustrated and fed up with being here feels like that's exactly what she was doing, like she was making fun of my life. It hits close to home, and I feel the anger bubbling to the surface.
I try to control it, turning my attention back to her face and then to the braid hanging over her shoulder. But it makes me think back to a time when I stumbled through the front door and interrupted my mom braiding Janie's hair. They had been laughing and having a good time, but the second I appeared, their smiles dropped. And I hadn't missed how my mom's hand rested on Janie's shoulder as if protecting her from me. Then when I sat on the couch near them, hoping for the tiniest scraps of my mom's attention, they decided to go bake something together.
She's not Janie or mom.
She's been looking after me and has been kind. I need to chill.
Just as I'm telling myself that, her employee lanyard brushes against my arm, and my gaze drops down to it. That irrational irritation starts to spread through my body, and I can't seem to stop it this time. Seeing her nursing ID reminds me that she's only looking after me because she's beingpaidto. It felt nice to be cared for by someone. But it's not real. She doesn't actually give a shit.
“I could probably figure you out pretty quick,” I respond abruptly.
“Is that right?” she asks with that amused look still on her face while wrapping a new bandage. Completely unaware of the storm brewing inside me. “Let's see what you've got then.”
I suck a breath in through my nose, trying to rein in my annoyance. “Well, your friends call youJaz,” I start, with a sarcastic bite to my voice. “Mommy and Daddy dote on you, paid for your schooling, paid for everything for you, and probably got you this job, which you only do because you have to. You don't actually give a shit about anyone but yourself. You spend your holidays with your perfect family, skiing in the mountains, and you spend your days off sipping mimosas with your snotty girlfriends, gossiping about which pretty boys you want to date. Couldn't read the writing on your arm, but I assume it's some sort of cliché inspirational shit. And the pictures are probably of things that you love.” The smile that was on her face earlier withers away before my eyes, but I can't help adding in an equally snarky tone, “Am I right,Jaz?”
Despite my anger, I kind of feel like shit after seeing the look on her face. Closing my eyes for a second, I blow out a breath and let the remorse that's already there grow. I'm not even pissed ather,really. I know my feelings are misplaced, and she happens to be the only one around that I can take my frustrations out on.
It's not even that whatI said was that bad, buthowI said it was like I was belittling her life, or like there's something wrong with those things. Why is it her problem if I'm bitter aboutmylife and irritated about being stuck here because ofmyactions?
She quietly finishes bandaging my head and doesn't say anything right away, even though I silently beg her to. Then she straightens up and smiles again, although it does look much more forced this time, and I don't like it.
“I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I'm just . . . I don't know, not feeling myself.”
She nods slowly. “It's okay. Irritability and anxiousness are common side effects after a head injury.”
“I feel like I'm going crazy in here,” I admit to her, rubbing a hand over my face and then wincing when it hurts.
She starts checking my blood pressure and then faces me. “I'm sorry, but that's also normal, unfortunately.Feeling that way, I mean.” Her voice is filled with nothing but empathy, adding to how shitty I feel about lashing out.
“Still doesn't mean you deserve my shit.”
“No. I don't,” she agrees. “But I'll let you off the hook this time.” The smile that tilts one side of her mouth is genuine now, making me feel a little better. “And you were totally wrong about my life, by the way.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
The longer she remains quiet, not elaborating, the more I find myself wanting to know about her, which is funny, seeing as I had just rudely decided who she was a moment ago.
“Are you not going to tell me what I was wrong about?” I finally question.
“Are you done with the assumptions?” she shoots back.
For some reason, that brings a smirk to my face. “I am.”
“Okay then,” she says, shuffling about, doing who knows what. “Where do I even start?” Then, after writing something down, she faces me. “Well, for starters, my parents died nine years ago, so any assumptions you had about that part of my life are invalid.” I feel the smirk drop from my face as she fingers the writing along the inside of her forearm. “These are their names.” And then, touching the other arm, adds, “And these are things thattheyloved.”
Fuck. I'm an asshole. It wasn't enough that I lashed out at her, but I had to go and say shit about parents that she doesn't even have.
“Shit, I'm sorry.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “It was a long time ago. I have my older brother and aunt and uncle left, but they live up in Portland . . . along with all of my snotty girlfriends.”
